IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE TO HAND CALLIE INTO A CARRIAGE without skeletons rising up to point accusing fingers at him. Trev had been exquisitely polite as he bid her good night. Fortunately there was little moonlight, so both of them could direct their full attention to the mundane matter of safely negotiating her way onto the steps. He watched the carriage lumber into the darkness of the narrow, tree-choked lane.
He was beset by skeletons in Shelford. His mother, whom he had neglected beyond shame. His sisters, lost to scarlet fever, lying in graves he had not visited. His grandfather, unmourned and full of condemnation, rising up like some vengeful character from a play by Shakespeare. And Callie-shy, passionate, a very much living reminder of one of the more reprehen sible moments in a notably careless career.
He still found it difficult to comprehend that she had not married. When he had left, he'd been sure that she would be wed within the year, if not sooner-as soon as her father could arrange for it.
He had not cared to stay and watch the ceremony. He was a contemptible French scoundrel, so he went to France. To his bloodthirsty delight, he'd found that Bonaparte had good use for young men with bruised hearts and even more deeply lacerated pride. For a few years Trev had labored under the name of Thibaut LeBlanc and shot at Englishmen, starved hideously, looted Spanish peasants, and learned how far down he could plunge into brute existence. What final vestige of pride or humanity he retained was burned out of him at Salamanca. He had not rejoined the crushed remnants of his company as they retreated; he'd surrendered instead to a British aide-de-camp who recognized him from their school days, and spent the rest of the wars in the reasonable comfort of various officers' prisons, interrogating French captives for Wellington's staff.
He might have gone back to Shelford after Waterloo. Instead he had remained in France. He'd begun to write to his mother, but somehow he had not told her of the battles or the ruin he had found at Monceaux, or the burned-out shell of her childhood home in Montjoie. Somehow he had written instead of how he would win it back for her, the fabled château and the titles and everything she had lost.
He knew all the stories. His grandfather had made certain of that. Instead of nursery rhymes, Trev had been weaned on tales of the Terror, of his father's heroism and his mother's sacrifice. His father had not surrendered, like Trev, but gone as a true nobleman to his fate. His mother had barely escaped the mob. Trev owed his life and his baptismal name to one Captain Trevelyan Davis, an enterprising Welshman who had smuggled her and her five young children across the channel just two days before she gave birth to him.
In spite of the bloody backdrop, his childhood had been golden. He didn't miss a father or a country he'd never known, but he remembered his pretty mother laughing while she taught his elder brother to dance. Trev had worshipped Etienne as only a seven year-old could worship a dashing brother of thirteen. Those had been the sweet, carefree times, the years of perfect boyhood bliss. Then one day Etienne had tried to raced his hot-blooded horse past a carriage, and amid a crush of wheels and his mother's frenzied grief, Trev's brother had died, and the sunny world of childhood ended.
From that time, it was Trev's duty to regain all that had been stolen. Like a personal guillotine, that expectation had hung over him, repeated with every blessing his grandfather said at meals, in each letter sent to him at the English school, repeated whether he fell ill or whether he recovered, when he was thrashed and when he was praised, repeated until Trev had been sure he would throttle his grandfather, or shoot himself, if he heard it one more time.
He had done no such thing, of course. Instead he had seethed like the silly, mutinous boy he'd been, at least before all the gold and silver plate was sold and he had to leave school and move with his family to the modest house at Shelford. After that he talked to Callie and made her laugh. An agreeable alternative to murder, making Callie laugh. She always tried not to and always did. It changed her face, made her eyes tilt upward and sparkle in the hopeless attempt to stif le her giggle, just as it had tonight.
A bird called in the dark garden, a trilling whistle that made Trev turn his head. He stared into the shadows. Then he put his hand in his pocket and felt for the pistol he carried, realizing with some annoyance that another of his skeletons had dropped round for a chat.
"Come away from the house," he said softly.
With a rustle, a figure moved out of the tangled gloom, shoving the overgrown bushes aside. A chicken squawked and f luttered. The visitor uttered a heavy handed curse and came through the gate.
"Quiet, you codpiece." Trev walked across the open yard with his hand still in his pocket. When he reached the back of the small stable, he stopped and turned. "What do you want?"
"Bill Hayter is beggin' a new match, sir."
Trev gave an exasperated sound. "I told you I've done with all that. He's been paid off. Let him go to another operator if he wants to publish a challenge."
"But the stakes-"
"I will not act as stakeholder, damn it. Do I have to place an advertisement in the papers?"
"The gentlemen of the Fancy don't trust no one but you, sir." His visitor was only a black silhouette.
"Then they may go hang," Trev said cordially.
"Sir," the man said in a plaintive tone.
"Barton-my mother is dying. A low, unfeeling fellow I may be, in the usual course of things, but I find this concerns me just a little. If you suppose I'm going to saunter off to make book at some fight that would like as not be broke up by the sheriff and land me in the dock, you may reorder your ideas."
"I'm sorry, sir. I'm sorry to hear that." Barton was silent for a moment. Then he said tentatively, "Do you think, after she passes on, God bless 'er, that you might…"
"I might have you strung up and disemboweled. I might do that."
Barton gave a gloomy sigh. "Very well, sir." His feet shuff led on the gravel. "But I don't know what's to become of us."
"For the love of God, you had two percent of sixty thousand guineas not a fortnight ago. How'd you manage to spend twenty years' wages in two weeks? Or need I ask?"
"We ain't got your head for a numbers game, sir," Barton said humbly. "You're the lucky one. Charlie botched the calculations, and we come up short to pay out on St. Patrick when he won at Doncaster."
"That short? You'd better marry an heiress and be done with it."
"Ain't no heiress would have me, sir," Barton said.
"Then follow my example. Become an honest man."
Barton gave a snort. Then he began to chuckle.
"Go on," Trev snapped. "Get out of here before you wake the dead."
Callie was sitting at her dressing table, dreaming of escaping from pirates, wielding a sword like a muske teer while Trev kicked a scalawag overboard at her side. As her maid unwound the length of purple silk from Callie's head, Hermione peeked inside the door, interrupting Trev's desperate lunge to pull Callie from the path of a cannonball.
Her sister slipped into the room, holding her wrapper close about her. "You're home," she said. "I was hoping you wouldn't be too late. Mrs. Adam said they hadn't a thing to eat at Dove House."
"Nothing," Callie said. "And I'm afraid Madame has not long to live."
"Poor woman." Hermione walked restlessly to the window, plucking at the latch as if it were not closed properly. "But her son has come home? High time for that, they say. I didn't see him; is he a toler able gentleman?"
"Oh yes. Elegant manners." Callie watched her sister in the mirror. Hermey took after their mother, everyone said, with skin of smooth perfection and soft golden brown hair falling loose now down her back. The maid plucked at the ends of Callie's own red braids and began to unravel and spread them over her shoulders.
"Elegant," Hermey said. "Well, that's to be expected, I'm sure. He's Madame's son, after all. And a duke, or whatever sort of title they have over there now." She stopped her agitated pacing and made a sweeping f lourish with her thumb and pinkie finger, as if she were taking a pinch of snuff. "So very continental!" There was a f lush to her cheeks, a high color that was unlike her.
"Crushingly modish, I assure you," Callie said lightly.
"I'm sure you took him in dislike, then. It was good of you to offer to help."
Callie did not correct her. "I intend to do what I can for them," she said merely. "I mean to find some servants and see that the house is put to rights."
"Of course." Hermey made a distracted wave of her hand. She turned away and turned back again. "I was surprised to find you gone, though. I was looking for you after the waltz."
"Yes, I told Mrs. Adam-"
"I know. It's no matter. Only-" She hugged herself. A half smile of excitement curved her lips. "Your hair is so pretty when it's down! It looks like copper waves."
"Hermey." Callie tilted her head quizzically. "What mystery are you keeping from me?"
"Sir Thomas is coming to call on Cousin Jasper tomorrow!" she said breathlessly. "He told me so!"
Callie smiled at her. "Already!"
"Oh, Callie!" Hermey clasped her hands together, chewing her knuckles. "I'm so afraid!"
"Afraid? Of what, pray?"
Hermione took the hairbrush from the maid's hands. "Be so good as to go upstairs, Anne," she said primly. "I'll do that."
The maid curtsied and left the room. Hermey watched the door close behind her and then began to brush out Callie's hair. Callie could feel her sister's fingers trembling. "Hermey!" she exclaimed. "What are you afraid of?"
"It's just that-he said… he said he would do himself the honor of calling on the earl tomorrow. That means he's going to ask, doesn't it, Callie?"
"I should think so," Callie said. "He had no busi ness saying such a thing to you if he didn't mean it."
"I'm twenty," Hermey said. "Twenty! And it's my first offer."
"Well, you needn't make anything of that. You couldn't come out while Papa was so ill, and then you had to wait out the last year in mourning. You haven't even had a season."
"I know. But I'm almost-" She stopped, looking conscious.
"On the shelf?" Callie drew her hair over her shoulder, working at a tiny tangle. "Goose! I'm on the shelf, not you. You'll have your choice of suitors if you wish to wait until spring and go up to London. I hope you won't leap at this one if you don't like him."
"I like him," Hermey said. "Very much!"
Callie parted her hair and caught it, winding it about her head. Sir Thomas Vickery seemed a kind and quiet gentleman, the perfect sort of person to be perpetually an undersecretary. He rather reminded Callie of herself, which did not impress her greatly, but she could find nothing to object to in him. Indeed, she could only be glad that Hermey, who was a little f lighty, seemed to prefer a steady man. And he was drawn to her sister's vivaciousness no doubt-which would be just as well if the three of them were to form a household. At least there would be one person to make conversation at the dinner table.
"Well, then," she said. "If you like him that much, I advise you to wear that blue straw bonnet tomorrow and be in your best looks. I don't know how he can help himself but propose if he sees you in it."
"I think he will," Hermey said. "I know he will." She went and sat against the bed, still holding her wrap about her and shivering as if she were cold. "No, anything but blue, Callie. I think I will wear the apple green. Or the spotted lilac with the cream ribbon. Oh, I can't think. I don't care what I wear!"
"Calm yourself, my dear," Callie said at this aston ishing statement. Hermey always cared what she wore. "It's really not so frightening. I've had three offers myself and survived them all."
"I know. I know!"
She looked so distressed that Callie rose and turned to her. "What is it? Now, do not cry, love! I never thought you would be full of nerves over such a thing. He's the one who should be anxious, and I've no doubt he's quaking in his shoes this minute at the thought of making an application to you."
Hermey gave a choked sob. "Oh, Callie! I'm going to tell him that I want you with me or I must refuse him, and I'm s-so afraid he will say no to it."
Callie paused. She met her sister's unhappy eyes. Then she turned and reached for her nightcap, bending to the mirror and tucking up her hair. "You will tell him no such thing, of course!" she said briskly. "You mustn't make a cake of yourself just when he's proposed, you silly girl. Do you want to frighten him out of the house before you have him fairly caught?"
"But I will tell him!" Hermey took a deep breath. "I don't care if he won't agree. I won't leave you here alone with that… that-oh, I don't know what horrid name to call her!"
"Hush," Callie said, as her sister's voice rose. "He would think you addle-brained, my dear, just when he's declared his deep love and abiding respect for you, to be told that his bargain is two for one."
Hermey bit her lip. "Is that what he will say? That he loves me?"
"Certainly. That's what they all say."
"Well, if he truly does love me, then he'll let me have you with me. And your cattle too!"
Callie laid her robe across the chair. She crossed to the bed and gave Hermey a hug. "Perhaps he will. But pray do not tax him with it at the very moment that the poor man makes his offer. There will be ample time to talk of such things later."
Hermione caught her hand as she pulled away. "Callie. I will not leave you here with her. I couldn't bear the thought. I won't speak of it to him tomorrow, then-but I promise you that I will." She lifted her chin defiantly. "And if he doesn't agree, then I will jilt him."
"Excellent!" Callie said. "It's high time we started to even up the score."
An hour before sunrise, Callie was already making her way along the lane to Dove House. The autumn air lay heavy with fog. They were still far from any snap of frost, but the coolness of nighttime had begun to promise a chill. She pulled her hood closer and assured herself that this early start was merely because she wished to avoid awkward questions from Lady Shelford, not for any reasons having to do with pining or being missed or anything of that nature.
She meant to prepare a breakfast, leave it set out on the parlor table under covers, and return to Shelford Hall before anyone would suppose she had done more than make an early visit to the farmyard. No one belowstairs at the Hall had questioned her need for bread and bacon and butter. They were accustomed to any odd request from Callie for her animals. But Dolly, Lady Shelford, was another matter. It would require some marvelous persuasion, Callie feared, for her cousin-in-law to approve of lending out the undercook. Callie wasn't hopeful about her prospects of success.
In the shadowy silence before dawn, she let herself into the scullery at Dove House and laid out her burden. The kitchen was empty, but the fire had been banked properly and took no great effort to revive. She envisioned a frigid wind blowing across the side of a mountain. Casting herself as the pretty daughter of an old shepherd, she built up the fire to a hot blaze in order to warm the rich and handsome traveler she and her faithful dog had just rescued from the Alpine snows.
After she had renounced his fervent offer of matri mony in favor of the handsome-but-poor blond moun tain guide who had loved her since she was a child in the f lower-strewn meadows, she slipped upstairs to look in on Madame de Monceaux. As she ascended, she could hear a ponderous snoring all the way from the attic and supposed that the massive Jacques had found himself a bed. When Callie peeked into Madame's chamber, the duchesse seemed to be resting quietly, her breathing shallow but regular. Barely visible in the shadows, Trev slept in the bedside chair, propped against the wall at an uncomfortable angle.
Callie paused. His mother must have passed a difficult night, if he had sat up with her for all of it. As she closed the door, trying to keep it from squeaking, she resolved to find at least a maidservant and a cook by dinnertime, even if she had to gird herself to beg Dolly for the loan. The situation for hiring in Shelford was dire, with the opening of a large new pottery not four miles from the town. Even Shelford Hall had felt the pinch in trying to replace the increasing number of staff who had left since the new mistress had taken management of the house. But Dolly had only looked coldly uninterested when Callie suggested that wages might be increased to compete with the manufactory's lure. Callie was entreated to calm her anxiety about a pack of disloyal servants and concern herself with more refined topics.
It was still dark outside when she set the teakettle on the hob and arranged rashers of bacon in the skillet. She stared down at the sizzling meat, deep in thought as she considered where best to begin inquiries. The innkeeper, Mr. Rankin, might have news of a prospective cook, since he was on the post road and received all the intelligence first. And Miss Poole always had her finger on the pulse of the young girls available in the district, looking out for help in her mantua-shop. A girl too clumsy to do good needlework would be perfectly useful at Dove House.
"Good morning."
A husky voice made her look round quickly. She dropped the big fork and turned as Trev stepped down into the kitchen, his black hair tousled and his neck cloth hanging rumpled and loose.
"That smells delicious," he said. "And the cook is a charming sight too." He leaned against the wall wearily. "If there is coffee to be had, I believe I may be able to carry on to the next hill."
"Coffee," Callie said, f lustered to find him down so soon. "Oh yes. Let me look out some berries from the pantry. Good morning!"
He smiled. "What can I do to help you? I'll carry out a violent raid on the rosebush, if I can unearth it in that jungle of a garden."
"No, do sit down, if you don't mind to eat in the kitchen." She waved at the scarred old table. "There's bread and butter. I fear your mother passed an uneasy night?"
His brief smile evaporated. He stood straight and came to the table to sit. "She was better after midnight, I think. I don't know. Perhaps it's only a bad spell, and she'll be recovered presently." He looked up hopefully.
Callie kept her gaze averted, setting the skillet off the grate. "I pray so. When I saw her a month ago, we sat up in the parlor, so perhaps with better nourish ment she'll find her strength." It was too difficult to admit that she feared the duchesse was failing badly.
He ran his hand through his hair. "I'll send Jacques to London today. I want a man of reputation to attend her."
Callie laid bacon on a plate. "Let me fetch the coffee-berries."
When she came back to the kitchen, he was gone. But by the time she had roasted the berries on a fire shovel and ground them, he returned. His great, tall manservant ducked a shaved head through the door after him. Jacques didn't linger to eat but only made a very creditable and gentlemanly bow to Callie before he went out the back door. She glanced after him. He was dressed neatly but oddly for a servant, in billowing yellow trousers and top boots, a colorful scarf tied about his throat. She had not noticed the night before that both of his ears were thickened and distorted in shape. If he had not been so well mannered and gentle in his moves, she would have thought he had been one of those horrid pugilists, the ones who came into the country for their illegal matches and caused all her farm lads to lose their wits and talk of taking up fighting as a trade.
A faint light of dawn showed against the sky as the manservant went out. When he was gone, Callie became conscious that she was left alone with Trev in the kitchen. He had not yet shaved, but he had straight ened his neck cloth and brushed the wilder curls from his hair. It didn't seem awkward or improper; indeed it seemed comfortable when he sat down again at the table and began to slice the bread. Callie set out plates and cups, the chipped and elegant remains of a set that had once borne garlands of f lowers and gilt rims.
She strained off the coffee when it boiled. Trev had speared pieces of bread on a long-handled fork, toasting them at the fire with surprising expertise for a French duke of royal bloodlines. He dropped the golden brown pieces off the fork onto a plate.
Callie was indulging herself in gentle daydreams, now the mother of a promising young family in a Normandy farmhouse, preparing breakfast for her dashing husband while he was home on leave from his naval command. He looked so drowsy because they had spent the entire night making passionate love that would no doubt result in another fine son. After breakfast they would take a stroll through the seaside village and cause the other wives to sigh over his gallantry and prizes. She served out the bacon on two plates and sat down across from him. "I hope the coffee is what you like."
"Everything is exactly what I like," he said. "You most of all."
She shook her head, feeling herself grow pink. She put down her knife and fork. "I must go and find the eggs."
"Don't go," he said quickly. "I won't be outra geous, I promise you."
Callie hesitated. Then she picked up her fork, trying to keep her eyes down on her plate and not gaze at him like a moonling. They ate in silence for some moments, while she lectured herself with unspoken vehemence on the folly of a plain woman of twenty seven years, thrice rejected, having any thought at all about a silver-tongued rogue's careless compliments. If she had been more skeptical of him nine years ago, she would not perhaps have suffered quite so painfully.
"It must be quite interesting to grow the grapes for wine." She made a plunge at casual conversation.
He shrugged slightly. "They're grapes," he said, as if that entirely covered the subject.
"Did you find the vineyards at Monceaux badly damaged?" she asked.
"Oh no." He drank a deep swallow of coffee. "Even raging revolutionaries like a good claret."
"I hope your absence won't cause too much disrup tion in the work. It's harvest time there, is it not?"
He lifted his hand carelessly. "There's a vigneron to take care of all that."
"Oh yes," she said, remembering. "The evil Buzot!"
He glanced up with a sharp look, as if her mention of the name startled him.
"Madame asked me to read her letters aloud," she said hastily. "I hope you don't mind."
"Ah, then you know of Buzot." He sat back in his chair. "The fellow howls at the moon and drinks the blood of innocent babes, I assure you. I haven't caught him at it, but that's only because I'm afraid to go out after dark."
"How vexing. But he makes such excellent wine from your grapes."
"Oh, magnificent wine!" he said affably. "It's my belief that he's sold his soul to the devil."
"No wonder that you keep him on." She nodded, buttering bread. "It can't be easy to find someone with such impressive credentials."
"I don't suppose any midnight covens are scheduled to convene in Shelford?" he inquired. "We might discover an exceptional cook."
"I'm afraid that would be quite ineligible. There's no saying what she might put into the pot and pass off as a chicken."
He put down his cup, his eyebrows lifted in alarm. "I hadn't thought of that. Scratch the coven."
"I think we should start with Mr. Rankin."
"Ah. And what has Mr. Rankin to say to it?"
"He still keeps the inn-the Antlers, you know- and will be our prime informant. You mentioned that funds were not greatly restricted?"
"Hire the chef out of Buckingham Palace if he can appear promptly."
Callie peeked up at him. The only overt signs that he was now a very wealthy lord were his excellent carriage and elegant dress. He seemed to be traveling without pomp, or any retinue beyond Jacques. She rather liked him for it, that he had not changed his ways on regaining his family's riches and titles. Dolly had insisted on every point of ceremony since her elevation to the Countess of Shelford. Cousin Jasper's vague indifference to the dignity of his new title only seemed to goad his wife into greater concern for his position. She made certain that the smallest mark of respect toward the earl should not be overlooked.
It was a relief to escape, even for an hour, from the stif ling atmosphere that had been established at Shelford Hall. High form and etiquette always made Callie feel as if she should consult Burke's Peerage to make certain her name was actually in it, and discover how she ought to address herself in letters.
"I'll pass by the Antlers on my way back," she said, on a more comfortable subject, "and have them send over a hot dinner by noon. That must suffice for now, but their victuals are very plain, and I think it best to have a cook in the kitchen, so that Madame's appetite can be tempted with more delicate fare."
"Thank you. I hadn't even thought of sending to the inn."
"If you'll excuse me, I'll go up and attend your mother and make her comfortable before I go."
"Thank you, Callie." He pushed himself to his feet as she rose. "Thank you. I can't believe-" He shook his head with a baff led sound. "Who are these chuck leheads who let you slip out of their grasp?"
Callie was conscious of a sudden rush of blood to her cheeks. "Hardly that. They were made to pay handsomely for the privilege of relinquishing my hand, I assure you."
"So I should hope," he said. "Blackguards. Are you a great heiress, then?"
"Well, yes," she admitted. "At least, I suppose I am. After the last settlement-it does tote up to a rather large sum."
"How much?" he asked bluntly.
She bent her head. "Eighty thousand," she said in a smothered voice.
"Good God."
"So you see," she said, lifting her face, "I'm hardly an object for compassion."
"May I make you the object of my violent and unrestrained ardor?" He made a motion as if to loosen his neck cloth. "I'm a bit tired, but perfectly willing."
"My calling hours are from twelve to three, if you wish to importune me violently," Callie said, drop ping a quick curtsy. "But now I must see to your mother."
"Thank you." He gave a weary snort. "How many times have I said that? I'll try if I can to achieve some originality when I've had more sleep."
She paused on her way to the door. She had meant only to say that he had no need to thank her, but something in his tired smile made her touch his arm. "I'm so glad you've come home," she said softly.
He stood still for a moment. Then abruptly he gripped her hand. "Oh God, I can't even think how to tell you-" He seemed to hear the desperation in his own voice, and let go of her with a rueful laugh. "Well. You'd better make your escape immediately, before you find me pressing kisses to your feet. Or somewhere equally improper."
Callie ducked her head. She lifted her skirts and hurried up the steps out of the kitchen.
The fog still lay heavy when she reached the pasture, softening and obscuring the trees and hedges. Hubert stood waiting at the gate, a dark shape in the mist. As she came to the fence, he broke off his placid chewing and lifted his huge pink nose, snuff ling loudly in expectation.
Callie pulled a loaf of stale bread from her basket. She stepped up on the rail. The bull nosed gently, tickling her fingers, and took the bread on his long tongue. He curled it into his mouth. Callie scratched his broad forehead while he chewed with an air of satisfied contemplation.
He had good reason to feel satisfied with himself. Hubert was an excellent specimen. He measured five feet six inches at the shoulder and eleven feet ten inches from nose to tail. He boasted a superbly mottled coat, red and black on a white ground. In addition to his size and beauty, he possessed all the highest perfec tions of a shorthorn bull: a clean throat, level back, impeccable big shoulders, ribs full and round, leading smoothly to long quarters. He had grown only one ring yet on his handsome horns, being just three years old, and his first crop of calves were on the ground this past spring, perfectly healthy and lively as larks.
She looked on him fondly as he blinked his generous lashes and turned his head to allow her better access to scratch behind his ear. She had been present at Hubert's birth, led him about at his mother's side when he was a baby calf, comforted him with treats when he was weaned, nursed the inevitable cuts and scrapes a young bullock inf licted upon himself by trying to reach that farthest blade of grass through the hedgerow, and brought him up to his impres sive prime. Hubert was the pride of the county, a fit successor to his celebrated grandsire, Rupert.
Even though he was a mottled shorthorn, rather than one of the cherished local white-faced breed, she felt perfectly certain that he would take first premium at Hereford. In a few days she would have him begin his leisurely walk to the city with her most trusted drover, moving at just the right speed to maintain his weight and muscle, but still arrive in good time for him to recover from any loss or scratch he might suffer on the journey.
As Callie leaned across the fence to rub his ear, a sudden growling bark made her startle and grab the rail. Hubert turned his big head as a brindled dog charged from out of the foggy lane, roaring and snarling. It stopped, teeth bared, a yard's length from her skirt.
Hubert stamped a hoof, lowering his nose to look through the rail. The dog rushed toward him, snap ping. In the f lash of the moment, Callie threw her basket, sending a shower of bread on the dog's head. It shied off for an instant, then paused, its heavy muzzle turned toward Hubert, its pink lip still lifted in a growl, quivering in every muscle.
"Silly creature!" Callie said in a jolly voice. She stayed on the rail but forced her muscles to relax. "Now what do you suppose you're doing?"
The dog never took its eyes from Hubert. The bull had turned to face the threat, lowering his nostrils almost to the turf, blowing strong gusts of air against the grass. He began to paw the ground.
"What a funny dog!" Callie crooned in a quiet voice. "What a foolish boy. You don't think we mean to hurt you?"
A man's voice called out from the road. The dog pricked its shorn ears and turned. But it did not retreat.
Through the light fog, she saw a stranger hurrying toward them. He called the dog again. This time it obeyed him reluctantly, swinging away and trotting to his side.
"Beg pardon, Miss!" He reached down and grabbed the dog by the collar. "I'll put a rope on him."
Neither man nor dog were from the neighbor hood of Shelford, where Callie knew every domestic creature and a good number of the wild ones too. The stranger wore a heavy overcoat and gaiters with an elegant top hat, a rather odd combination of country and city fashion. As he straightened up from tying the dog, he gave her a nervous smile, his mouth creasing too widely under high cheekbones.
"We'll go along now, Miss!" he said, touching his hat and dragging the dog as it snarled and lunged back toward Hubert.
She watched from the gate as his outline faded in the fog. He disappeared around the curve in the lane. The sound of the dog's barking diminished. One of those card sharpers and badger-baiters, she did not doubt, who would put his dog to fighting chained animals while he stood back and shouted and made his cowardly bets. Callie despised the breed. She hoped that he was merely passing through. The Bromyard fair had just ended, and fairs always attracted such men. She thought she would make note of it to Colonel Davenport. Just a word in the magistrate's ear, that whatever might be tolerated in Bromyard, such activities were not to be countenanced in Shelford's village.